Some Thoughts, A Story and a Prayer

Lately motherhood has taken up most of my brain space. There is family drama happening in my family of origin and the hurt, the anger, the disappointment and the oppression I smell lurking around my parents and my siblings is frustrating. The whole situation is a mess and none of my questions have answers but I'm hopeful the tears I shed when quietly contemplating all of it, are the words I can't find in the prayers I'm having trouble praying.

Let's start with some thoughts.

Motherhood hurts. It is the hardest, the least recognized, and unrewarded thing I have done so far in my life. From what I observe, it seems like adult children put mom in the backseat and prefer the stories of their fathers. Do moms get taken more for granted than fathers? I would never say my adult children do not love me but perhaps the silent role I play is like oxygen - it's there and my children are grateful but they simply don't recognize it.

I also observe mothers resigning themselves to a type of obscurity in our ongoing attempt to please our children, to give them what they need. We allow them to barely tolerate us even when we most certainly are the only ones who fully understand the extent of our sacrifice made on their behalf. It appears they don't see it, don't appreciate it, and will most definitely never fully comprehend it. So what do we do? We stay quiet, stay in the backseat, and although on some level our hearts are breaking, our need to allow them to be who they are, to get to where they are going, outweighs our desire to smack them in the back of the head.

Do you think there is an invisible cord connecting mothers to their children for ever and always? Do we as children have some weird instinct to sever the cord to assure ourselves of our adult status and our independence? Does it start in our terrible twos when we utter phrases like, "I can do it" and "I don't need your help" and we never grow out of it?

Questions I have. Answers I only make up.

Now for a story.

When I was old enough to make decisions, I decided to never be like my mom.

Never.

The year I turned two my biological dad was killed in an accident. I was child number three of my mom's four kids and was too young to remember my first daddy. Mom married the man I now call dad six months after she lost her first husband.

When I arrived at adolescence, I took all the wisdom I had at that point and told myself mom's turnaround marriage was a result of not having a plan. I vowed to always have a plan. I figured with a plan I would be independent and independence was essential. If you weren't independent you were needy and from what I could tell needing someone to save you from a terrible situation was in itself a terrible situation.

I felt my mom had no backbone and was incapable of fighting for herself and incapable of standing up to my stepdad. Always be capable I vowed to myself. Always. In my eyes my stepdad did not respect her and she never asked him to. He'd tell her to jump and her response was to ask how high. Always demand respect I decided. If someone doesn't respect you, walk away.

The year I was in grade 11 mom got sick. Right after dad's accident I believe mom went into some type of survival mode. Keep moving, just keep moving she may have vowed, because she did. She had a new husband and four babies who needed her until we didn't. By the time I was in grade 11, both of my older sisters were married and out of the house. My younger brother and I were both in high school, old enough to mostly tend to ourselves, and I believe at this point my mom's body triumphed over her resolve.

But I still needed her. I didn't need her to tuck me in anymore or even feed me but I needed someone to help me navigate the teenage years. I was shy, awkward, a late bloomer, and I wanted someone to see me and help me without having to ask for it.

When mom got sick she was in the hospital more than she was out and the help I so desperately needed wasn't there, I resolved to never need her. Her getting sick was the thing to break me or perhaps it was the thing to make me. I'm not sure. I do know I desperately wanted her to get better and she could not or would not. I wanted her to be strong for herself and for me and she seemed to cry all the time and waste away to almost nothing. "Fight mom, fight!", I'd say to myself over and over and my eyes saw no fight in her. She didn't fight for me or for herself and so I dismissed her.

I decided at the ripe old age of 17 to leave my Mennonite farm life in Southwestern Ontario and head to college in Southern California. Why not? The friends I grew to rely on to help me navigate the wilds of teenage-hood were all paired up with boyfriends and on track to become wives and mothers.

Why would you want to do that? Marriage led to motherhood and I wasn't going there.

I never wanted to be my mom.

She was sick. She was weak. She was disrespected. Not only was she incapable of keeping me safe but in the midst of her sickness I had told myself she was incapable of even seeing me. Everything was all about her.

So I decided to act. If she couldn't keep me safe, I figured I would keep myself safe and start something new away from all the pain and frustration. I packed my suitcases, told myself I was bound for adventure and took off. I had to find new things. I had to find my own way. By myself.

As I think and write those words it seems so harsh doesn't it? Gratefully it seems harsh to my 53-year-old self who now adores her sweet mommy but my 17-year-old self knew those words to be true.

Of course as I reflect I can't help but wonder how my 28-year-old child, my 24-year-old child, and my 22-year-old child see me. What vows are they in the process of living out? Vows they made in reaction to what they saw in me. What do they see when they watch me? Terrifying thoughts. Absolutely terrifying.

A couple years ago I participated in three days of intense therapy and it was there I finally made peace with my mom. The therapy session wrapped up by writing a goodbye letter to my mom. Perhaps it is more accurate to say it was a goodbye to the vows I created at 17 and had held onto for all those years.

Goodbye to the mom of my youth.

Goodbye to the vows I made to survive. If they were once true, they were no longer, and not only were they no longer helpful, they were hurting me and keeping me behind bars I wanted and needed to be free of.

So there you have it. Some thoughts. A story. Let's try to wrap it up.

It seems utterly preposterous to say my mom disappointed me. She gave me life. She cooked me breakfast, lunch and dinner for most of my first 17 years. She clothed me, bathed me, cut my hair, tucked me in at night with a kiss. I am completely convinced she did the best for me she was capable of doing and yet for years I had the audacity to say I was disappointed?

Yep. I guess so.

She gave me all of the above and I wanted more. I looked around, surveyed my world and my understanding of it, and inwardly pleaded with her to be someone she simply wasn't and still is not. I wanted her to respond to life in the way I would have based on all the things I had because she gave them to me.

At 53 I can see how ridiculous I was and how necessary it all was. I'm sure my mom wasn't oblivious to the thoughts I carried around in my head about her. I'm sure she could sense my inner pleading to "fight mom, please fight!" She saw the eye rolls, she picked up on the disrespect and even though I grew out of my teenage years I carried much of the same load through my 20's, my 30's and my 40's.

Mom saw it all and quietly bore it. It's just how she is. She is not a fighter. She is a tender quiet soul who fiercely loves all four of her children through our disappointment in her and in her disappointment in us. Now I see how she sat in the backseat and watched me fight and thrash around up front because she knew, in her way, I had to fight to become who I needed to be. I had to sever the cord so I could return to it.

Thanks mom.

I may never fully understand what you gave up for me. I may never know the extent of the heartbreak I caused during my years of holding true to the vows I made in my youth. I'm thankful you never tried to make me like you and please forgive me for trying to make you more like me. I'm sorry for the mess we are in right now. I wish I could fix it but I can't.

A mother's sacrifice may not mean a happy ending. A mother's devotion may not lead to appreciation and those are difficult truths to bear. Painful truths.

And so how to end? When answers are absent and truth is difficult what remains?

Prayer.

Our Father who art in heaven.

Hallowed be thy name.

Thy kingdom come.

Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread.

Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.

Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.

For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory forever.

Amen.